


Rising Action

by Pharmfiction



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, Gen, Light Angst, Maybe - I guess we'll see, Slow Build, There will be French in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharmfiction/pseuds/Pharmfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marinette returns after two years of traveling the world she finds that time has not been kind to the great city of Paris. Instead of just an unpredictable foe to contend with, she is also facing a hostile city that believes their hero abandoned them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving forward

[This chapter's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYPWxymohWs)

 

Specs of dust waltz in the late afternoon light, twirling around each other without a care in the world. They sweep up and down, moving to the rhythm of their music. As they come around for a final lap in the sunlight they burst apart, their pattern thrown off by the rude interruption of a newcomer. A large cardboard box slides through the lit patch above the counter, taking up the last free space on the aged walnut surface. A path of dust is carved out in its wake.

“How’s it going with the dishes?” Ayla’s voice is chipper with a forced edge to it, as it’s been for the last few weeks. Her hair is done up in a tight messy bun with loose strands falling past her ears. Dust and sweat line her brow, and there’s a new rip in the fabric of her jeans over her left knee. She’s tired, yet she keeps trucking those boxes up the three flights of stairs as if it is a schoolyard jaunt.

Marinette straightens and looks at the half-empty box she has been working on. The earthen tones of the plates are interrupted by brilliant peacock blues and greens intertwining in a patterned dance. Guilt swirls in her gut as she realizes she’s only gotten a portion of the job done. Instead of working hard like Ayla she had allowed her thoughts to drift off with the dancing dust.

“Half-way?” her voice is timid, lacking certainty.

Ayla’s brows slant down for a moment, before her gaze is drawn to the commotion at the front door. A mountain of boxes emerges through the frame before being deposited delicately on the floor. The behemoth that is Tom surfaces from behind them just as Sabine enters behind him, her arms laden with heavy cloth bags.

“Oh,” Sabine’s eyes dart to the filled counter, “Where would you girls like me to put this?”

Not recognizing the bags from the move Marinette asks, “What is it?”

“I got you girls some food. Not much, but it should be enough to keep you fed for the next few days.”

“Mom, you didn’t need to do that.”

With Ayla’s help the two girls clear enough space from the counter for the collection of groceries. Boxes are stacked upon boxes haphazardly on the floor. Pillars tilt dangerously, on the precipice of tipping over. With every moment walking across the kitchen is becoming more of a labyrinthine activity.

Sabine brushes her daughter’s protest to the side as she rests the bags down. “Of course I did. I couldn’t let you two starve so soon after finally getting back. You’d leave France in search of your next meal and never return!”

“We could go to Portugal...” Ayla muses.

Marinette counters, “We already went to Portugal.”

“True, but we could go again and spend more time on the beach. This time it’d be just the two of us.”

From across the room drifts Tom’s tenor voice humming the tune of [Will Smith’s song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WamkRSDeD8)

 A smile graces the corner of Sabine’s mouth before she turns her attention back to the two young women.

“If you’re considering leaving already, maybe I should have bought more.”

A brief flash of panic propels Marinette to her mother and takes her cool smooth hands within her own. “No mom. Thank you for your help so far, but you don’t have to. We’ll be fine.”

As Ayla opens one of the bags to inspect its contents she adds, “If we do starve it’ll be okay for a while. We may have enjoyed the steamed dumplings in China a little too much.”

Marinette’s attention wanders back to the street vendor that had set up shop outside of her cousin’s apartment. The aluminum trolley would be stacked high with six or so woven baskets at a time, steam snaking its way through the tower and out the top. Scooters would rush by a mere three feet from the stall, sometimes swerving in to pick up an order before racing off again. The rush of traffic would only be punctuated by the vendor’s choppy Mandarin. The tables had been sticky, the ground had been covered in cockroaches and trash leftover from the day market, but the dumplings had been so savory. Warm. Filled with heaven and paired perfectly with a bowl of tangy sweet and sour soup. Or some satisfying egg drop soup. And all of it had been dirt cheap. For the price of a drink at McDonalds they could stuff their faces full every Thursday night. It had been a wonderful few months.

She’s drawn back to find that the women have already started unpacking the groceries. Tom has disappeared for what she hopes is the very last load of boxes. How they managed to accumulate so much stuff without actually being in the country is beyond her. They fill every space, shelf and viable horizontal surface, clamoring with one another for room in the tiny apartment. Closest to the front door, her room has already been blocked. The entrance is filled with boxes full of art supplies: inks from Italy, paper from Japan, shells from the Mediterranean, and pressed flowers in a myriad of sketchbooks. Then there is the collection of books she’d amassed, in every language, in every size and colour on whatever had caught her interest at the moment. Architecture in Spain, ghost stories in Romania, botany in Germany, fashion and media in China, India, and Indonesia.

Then there were the paintings.

A stab of sadness digs at her gut. This never ends well. She turns her attention back to Ayla and her mother and throws herself into helping them unpack. Soon they’ll have this place feeling like home.

She hopes they will at least. It’s a feeling she hasn’t felt in almost two years and part of her is afraid she’ll never experience it again. While her feet are finally firmly planted in one country, her soul has yet to settle back in France. An empty shell has hollowed out in her chest. While her mind is wandering, searching for a trace of her old self, she turns her attention back to the thick pottery dishes they’d bought in Denmark and continues on. 

 

* * *

 

The September night comes with a hint of cool air, a warning for the change that is about to come. Chat is perched on a parapet taking in the sights of the city at this late hour. Clouds block the stars and moon, and the shadows grow long and deep on the rooftops of Paris. The darkness doesn’t bother Chat Noir as his lime green eyes flick back and forth between every shadow. His sight pierces through them all, able to pick up the spider crawling up the rusting drainpipe four houses over. He breathes in the cool air with relief. The summer has been long and tiresome; a flurry of activity with relatively little rest. His body is tired, weighed down by stress and fatigue.

But things are quiet now. No monsters threaten the city, no terrorist attacks in any public places. Paris is preparing for the coming school year. He inhales once again, letting the air sink deep in his abdomen. It comes with hints of lavender, gasoline, spicy paella and freshly baked bread. These are the smells of his home.

In the distance a car door slams shut, prompting a dog’s bark in reply. An ambulance races across the city. He estimates it’s returning to the closest hospital. Traffic is light at this hour and they’ll make it with time to spare.

His ear twitches with a new high pitched noise. A block away a small child struggles to read to her father. Her voice is scrunched up with effort as she determines the identity of each word. “For you I’m only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. Can’t you read this _papa_?”

“ _Non,_ _chère_. You can do this. Just make it to the next page.”

“But I don’t want to! It’s more fun when you read it.”

“I like listening to you read. You have a nice voice. Just one more page, please?”

“Fine,” she sighs and turns back to the classic Chat has recognized as _Le Petit Prince_. As she reads the words he mouths them by memory. “But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me. I’ll be the only fox in the world for you...”

A sad smile pulls at the corner of his lips before he turns his attention back to the quiet city. The moment of peace is over. Though the streets are settling in to sleep he feels the underlying restlessness. While they least expect it, another attack could go off. Or another child could be taken captive. Or another building could collapse without warning. If any of those were to happen right now, he’d have to deal with it all by himself.

It’s been almost two years that he’s patrolled alone. The absence of his lady at his side has ached and mostly faded. As he rises the movement is graceful, and nothing holds him back as he leaps through the air from one rooftop to another. Time heals, he tells himself. What little ache remains will soon vanish, and in the meantime he just has to keep himself occupied.

 

* * *

 

She’s lured to the edge of consciousness by the scent of fresh coffee. Once there, she’s keenly aware of the clatter her roommate is trying very hard not to make. Metal utensils clink against pottery, the fridge creaks in protest as it opens and closes. When a box hits the floor with a dull thud, Marinette is finally and irreversibly awake.

“ _Merde!_ ” Ayla’s punctuated voice confirms the fact that she won’t be getting any more sleep this morning. Using the momentum from a deep guttural groan, she rolls off the bed mattress. And crashes straight into another collection of boxes. The piles have multiplied overnight it seems, forming colonies in every habitable free space.

After working a couple limbs out of the contents of what she assumes is her closet, she finally makes it to her feet. The journey to the door is arduous and requires twisting around a chair balancing a mirror and yoga mats, past columns of boxes that have arched over top and joined with a printer acting as keystone. Marinette carefully steps over the laptop she strategically placed in the middle of the floor to avoid having anything fall on it during the night, then slides past the painted canvases propping her door open.

Ayla is waiting for her with a cup of fresh coffee and an apology. “Sorry about waking you up so early.”

She glances at the clock above the stove and takes a moment to read the hands as nine o’clock. Her mind struggles through fog to come to that conclusion, briefly wondering why they don’t have a digital clock in these modern times. The warm cup radiates heat in her hands. The first sip is bitter, dark with tones of fruit and earth. It pairs well with the light touch of froth and cream. An after note of sweet smooths over the back of her tongue. She hums in approval.

“We don’t have much Italian grind left, so enjoy it.” Ayla comments offhand as she makes her way back around the small kitchen bar. For the first time Marinette notes clear surfaces, and a complete lack of dust. The walnut counters shine with use and care in the morning sun. One end of a far counter contains collapsed boxes and flattened newspapers. Ayla has already put in a lot of work this morning.

Guilt swirls low in her gut, something that has become a familiar occurrence. “How long have you been up?”

“Since five. Couldn’t sleep. New place. I’m surprised you didn’t wake earlier with the noise I was making.”

“How are you still standing? With the time difference and that terrible train ride –“

“I’m fine.” Ayla cuts her off with the placement of a heavy plate down on the breakfast bar. Next to it is the box of croissants her parents had left last night. There’s already a noticeable hole in the collection. As she slides up into the stool she also notes the sides that have been placed out on the counter. Sabine remembered her favourite spread, walnut butter from her father’s extended family’s farm. She greedily spreads a large dollop of the thick cream onto the tip of one of the pastries and takes a generous bite. The crust flakes away, pieces sticking to her lips and others tumble down onto the plate. The walnut butter sends a burst of sweetness through her palate. The center is moist and tears away easily. Butter coats her fingertips as she sets it down.

“What’s wrong?” Ayla asks as she notices her expression.

“I don’t know.” She swallows and washes it down with more coffee. The frown between her brows burrows deeper. “It’s not the same.”

“What is?”

“The taste. It’s... off.” She couldn’t describe it anymore than that. Slowly she pushes the jar of walnut butter away, the glass jar dragging loudly against the wood surface. Disappointment tightens her chest. She had spent nights on the train dreaming about her first breakfast back in Paris. Visions of calories piled on top of one another had kept her spirits up while one of their rude cabin mates had snored loud enough to keep everyone awake. She had spent hours picturing this feast, and now she felt like throwing it all out.

“Maybe your taste buds have changed. It happens.”

“Yes but... this was my favourite spread as a child.”

“Well, you’re not a child anymore.”

Ayla speaks the truth. Marinette’s gaze flickers for a moment at the pale line of skin at the base of her own finger. The edges are only starting to fade. The hollow pit in her chest returns. Despite having not thought about it for a few hours, the guilt reminds her of its presence. It squirms between bites of pastry, settling in even deeper. As Ayla moves into the next room to deal with another mountain of boxes, Marinette eats the remainder of her butter croissant in silence.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast had been vanquished, Marinette turned her attention to the maze of boxes in her room. She stands in the doorway, eyes darting back and forth between piles and monuments trying to decide on the best course of action. While deciding between tackling the tower beside her bed or the one leaning at an awkward angle near the wall, her printer begins to sway. It floats back and forth, gently in an invisible breeze. Beneath it, the twin towers of cardboard boxes begin to groan. A squeal escapes from her throat as she dashes to save it. Her knee clips the edge of the chair. She catches the printer just in time, the weight jostling her shoulders back. A dark shadow passes across the edge of her vision. She turns to watch the full length mirror tip over. A crimson blur streaks past and intercepts the falling looking glass just in time.

“Tikki!”

Her kwami’s face is screwed up in effort as she stabilizes the mirror at a forty degree angle. Over the years she’s changed in subtle ways. Her antennae are longer, and curl with an edge of grace. The wings on her back are tipped with ebony. 

“Could I get a hand here?” The shrill note of her voice is gone, having leveled out around the time Marinette had graduated high school.

“Right, sorry.” Marinette abruptly pushes the printer back and launches towards the chair. She catches the edge of the fixture, and together they push it back upright.

“Printer!” Tikki cries and dives. Marinette turns to see the towers sway back, dislodging the oversized electronic in a spectacular jettison. It arcs across the dust stained air, and lands directly on top of an oversized pile of laundry. Underwear and socks are thrown across the room.

“Oh,” Marinette exclaims, observing nothing is broken. A pair of black dress sock hits the far wall, another pair featuring purple kites soars past the door. Silky pink underwear floats gracefully down into a perfect landing on the only free inch of floor.

“Well that was eventful. Perfect timing waking up for this.” 

She earns a scowl from her kwami. “This mess is going to kill one of us Marinette.”

“Hmm... so death by room?

Tikki’s scowl grows deeper, her furrowed brows consuming half her face. “No.”

“Death by printer?”

“Not this again. No.”

“Okay... but what about death by mirror?”

“No!”

Ayla’s head pops in through the open door frame, “Death by what now?”

“Nothing!” Tikki yells in annoyance.

“Mirror.”

A Cheshire grin splits across Ayla’s face. “Ooh, that one is actually plausible. Probably happened. What else have you got?”

“Death by printer.”

“Let’s try that one!”

Tikki sighs, the breath rattling her entire body. She slumps, having given up the will to put up a fight. Her body gradually floats to the door and disappears around the corner. As she does, Ayla’s thumbs race frantically across the screen of her phone. The tip of her tongue sticks out of her mouth as she types.

“Any results?” Marinette asks.

“Give me a minute... wait for it... and... yes! Death by printer in Paris, 1923. Sorry Mar, it’s been done.”

“ _Merde._ Wait, how?”

“Crush injury, industrial press. Internal bleeding.”

“Ouch.” She shakes her head and turns her mind back to the mess at hand. Ayla disappears once again to deal with her own disaster of a room.

Her heart isn’t interested in unpacking though, and Marinette’s attention begins to wander as she unpacks her first box.

The single window in Marinette’s room draws her attention. It runs from the ceiling to hip height. Thankfully the panes aren’t as old as the building, having been replaced recently. Much of their apartment has been replaced or renovated within the last five years. Tom had inspected the flat before they had put down their first payment, and had joked with Sabine about moving them into the unit next door. He had found fewer problems with the entire building than he had in their shop alone. One disadvantage of life in an older city was the constant and pressing need for maintenance. What didn’t get addressed or fixed one century got transferred to the next. Problems compounded, and structures weakened over time. If generations of owners and landlords weren’t proactive with upkeep, their buildings would literally fall to pieces.

They are lucky. The windows are new, and clean. Outside the day sparkles with potential. The leaves of the trees in the neighbouring park flutter in the wake of a breeze. Below, two children chase each other with bright blue foam swords. Their shrieks of laughter ring with excitement through the open window. They play without care, whacking each other over and over with the obscenely large weapons as their mothers watch idly from a nearby bench. Both adults have their cell phones in their hands. One swipes across their phone, pauses, and cheers. Their voice carries through the open window, exclaiming with joy over the feat of catching a Slowbro.

A butterfly darts past, pausing at the edge of the sill for a moment. Its wings beat once, twice, beating back and forth out of habit. Its feelers tap gently against the glass, tasting its way around in its new environment. Her eyes are drawn to its brilliant colouring; black with hints of indigo. Behind the insect trails a line of dark magic.

Her heart skips a beat and her mouth goes dry. They’ve been here all of a single day, and already there’s an akuma butterfly in their path. Outside her window.

“Tikki!” she yells. At the same moment she slams the window shut. The motion jostles the butterfly from the sill and it floats gently down into the park below. Towards the children with foam swords.

“Tikki!” she screams again. There is a high note of desperation in the single word. She watches as one child suddenly hits the other in the eye, earning an ear splitting screech of pain. The butterfly’s path changes from erratic to a straight beeline.

“Tikki!”

“What!” the creature appears inches from her face.

“Spots on!”

The transformation rushes across her body like a coursing stream. This change never grows old, each time she feels something new take over her as she transforms into Ladybug. Her muscles stretch with power, coil with untapped reserves of energy. The red suit coats her skin one panel at a time, building to suit her body’s needs. Magic rushes across her senses, caressing every nerve as it envelops and buries itself in her limbs.

She’s off the moment the energy has settled into her shoulders. Clearing the paintings at her door, a stern voice sends her skidding to a stop.

“Don’t you dare go out the front door!” Ayla’s hands are planted firmly on her hips. She’s acquired a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves that extend up to her elbows. Yet the terrible accessories are secondary to the untamed fury unleashed on her face. A hell beast has made itself a home in her fiery gaze.

“We are not having a repeat of Madrid! Go out the deck, onto the roof.”

“But –“ Ladybug gestures to the door that is literally within reach.

“Go!” she points viciously in the direction of the deck, on the other side of the apartment across the living room. Drops of soapy water fling from her hand, splattering against the sides of the breakfast bar.

“But –“ the doorknob is just inches away.

“If I have to move in the middle of the night again I will leave you behind. And I won’t come back to identify your remains.”

The threat is sincere. She withdraws her hand from the front door and starts to make her way across the living room. Around the floral sofa from Ayla’s aunt, over the half-opened boxes to the deck. As the sliding door clicks shut behind her, she throws her yoyo and is pulled back into the chase. The rush from moments ago once again infuses her soul, pushing her upwards and further than before. Wind howls past her ears. The metal wire digs into the grip of her hand.

She hurls herself down into the park and lands a few feet from the children. They look up from their play in time to watch her catch and purify the butterfly. With a flash of light, a pure white insect is released into the world and a major threat is evaded. For a moment, all is good.

Then the children start to scream. Bloodcurdling cries aimed directly at her. On the nearby bench their mothers finally stir.

“Akuma!” One screams and reaches deep into her purse. The other launches herself forward with a sudden burst of super human speed.

“Stay away!” she grabs both children and carries them away from Ladybug.

There was another butterfly? Labybug scans the park behind her, then the trees above for a sign of the akuma. Nothing seems amiss. Maybe whoever was transformed changed into a tree or a flowering bush. It had happened before during high school. Her eyes dart back to the flora present, second guessing every leaf’s shift in the errant breeze.

The sound of metal clinking draws her gaze back to the mother at the bench. In her trembling hands she holds a revolver pointed straight at Ladybug. Confusion gathers between her brows. Doesn’t this woman recognize her? Her hands raise slowly in the air as if to surrender.

“I’m not a threat – ” she starts but is cut off as the woman’s finger squeezes on the trigger. It’s only the lightning fast reflexes and years of fighting monsters that saves her when the gun goes off. The bullet misses her chest by less than an inch. Fear spikes her heartbeat to a race horse’s gallop.

“I’m not going to hurt you or your children. I’m only trying to help!”

She’s deaf to Ladybug’s voice. Her finger squeezes on the trigger once again and Ladybug launches herself up into the protective canopy of a nearby oak. Despite the foliage, two more shots tear through within inches of her hiding spot.

“What are you doing?” Ladybug yells down to the mother. As the woman glances up, she throws her yoyo and dislodges the weapon from her hand.

Ladybug’s question is echoed by a growing crowd of onlookers. One man tentatively approaches the young mother, his stance low and wary. His eyes flicker back and forth between the woman’s face and the gun on the ground.

“There’s an akuma!” the woman’s voice shakes with fear and she points straight to where Ladybug is hiding.

“Are you sure?” the man asks.

“Absolutely. It’s red, with spots.”

“I see it!” An elderly man on the edge of the crowd yells. To emphasize his point, he motions directly at Ladybug with his tripod cane. His grizzled hand rests on the trunk of a tree to balance his body.

The young mother dashes towards her gun and the crowd parts around her. As she lifts the weapon the park comes to life. Parents herd their young children away from the clearing, and cell phones are drawn to call the police. As the young mother lifts the gun up into the air, Ladybug is surprised to find two others in the audience follow her suit. Among them is the man who had initially approached the young mother.

She springs from the tree a split second before all three open fire on her position. The shots burst through the calm of the afternoon, tearing the air apart at the seams. She hooks her yoyo onto the roof of a nearby building and scrambles to the top, feet scraping roughly against the cement. Below the shooters look like toy soldiers, guns raised high and trailed on her. A spray of bullets sweeps over the edge of the roof. A window shatters, and a scream pierces the air.

Her presence is putting the people of this building in danger. A moment’s breath later she’s sailing from one rooftop to the next, her ears ringing and mind racing. Why did those civilians shoot at her?

The question rolls over and over in her head like a hamster wheel as she runs. It’s not until she’s found herself two districts away that she allows herself to stop. A windowless brick wall and an abandoned construction site block all chances of her transformation being witnessed.

“Why were they shooting at us?” Marinette finally voices the question out loud.

Tikki takes a moment to land in her extended hand, her weight no more than that of an orange. The kwami’s eyes are dark with concern. A storm of emotions brews within her mind.

“They didn’t recognize us,” she finally answers.

“We’ve only been gone for two years. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Tikki turns towards the horizon and gestures with one of her tiny paws. “But that’s not the only thing we should be concerned about. Look.”

Marinette turns to face the sprawling city of Paris. From this rooftop the sounds of cars fill the background with a constant drone. Metal clanging and ringing from a construction site punctuates the day. The music of a television playing a children’s show sneaks past an open window. The smog is light today, allowing for a great view. Years ago when there wasn’t any fighting, any monsters to hunt, civilians to save or homework to be completed, her and Chat Noir would take a rare moment to sit on the rooftops. There they would memorize every detail of their city: the people, buildings, crowds, cultures and patterns. They would trade terrible puns and snacks like children, enjoying each others company and the city they fought so bravely to defend.

She knew every building, road and alley back then. Today though, something is amiss. Something integral to the pulse of this city is missing.

“Tikki,” her voice is hollow with shock, “Where’s the Eiffel Tower?”


	2. Everyday Obstacles

[This chapter's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1hn9HMVRNA)

 

Slipping in unseen is always a problem. The elevator doors open directly in front of Nathalie’s desk, a white granite circular behemoth that was custom ordered from Brazil. Adrien is under the impression that she lives at that desk, always at the attentive like a soldier guarding a main entry point. He’s seen her at her desk as early as six in the morning, and as late as midnight. Ever since her demotion she’s been working tirelessly to prove her worth, to be seen as anything but a basic receptionist or errand girl.

The moment the doors open her eyes lock onto his. Her gaze is razor sharp, which can only mean she needs to talk to him about something. He approaches carefully, hesitation holding each footstep back a moment longer than necessary. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Did Gabriel find out ahead of time? He hasn’t mentioned anything to anyone yet.

“Adrien,” Nathalie beckons him over to her desk with one finger despite the fact that he’s only feet away. “You’re late.”

His eyes glance at the display on his phone. In the background he’s set the image to a sunset lighting the Louvre with flares of pinks and oranges. “By two minutes.”

“Exactly,” she waits until he’s completely approached her desk before continuing. Her hair is done up in her usual neat bun. The only detail that has changed over the years is her dress code. As the first face to be seen on this level, she’s being used to promote the Gabriel brand. The shift dress is from the new Fall line. Black lace hugs her toned arms from shoulders to wrist, and the length of the garment falls short of her knees. She’s adorned the whole ensemble with a pendant of a black butterfly trapped in purple resin; a tongue in cheek reference to all the chaos that happened last year. It’s the only display of humor he’s ever seen her attempt.

Her voice is clipped when she finally addresses him, “You went to _Collège Françoise Dupont_?”

“Yes...”

“You know this kid?” she motions behind her. For the first time he notices another individual observing this conversation. He’s been too focussed on Nathalie to notice. The young man is his own age, with a long thin nose and red hair tied back into a neat ponytail that reaches past his shoulder blades. His charcoal suit jacket has seen much better days, and so have his leather shoes. Both appear to have been recently liberated from storage. It takes a moment, but recognition slowly sets in.

“Nathaniel, what are you doing here?” The young man in question tries to answer but Nathalie cuts him off.

“One of the new interns. With everything going on I don’t have time for this, show him around.”

“But I’m late for –“

“You owe me Adrien.” Her eyes narrow to slits. If it was physically possible, they would be shooting lasers right now.

He straightens and nods stiffly, feeling more like a mannequin than a model. Nathaniel follows him around the desk and down the short hallway separating the entry from this floor’s work space. The tension doesn’t ease until they’ve turned a corner and lose sight of the Nathalie and her giant desk.

“Is she always like that?” Nathaniel’s voice is timid, but deep. Underneath the stress it’s smooth and rich as melted chocolate.

“Only to people she likes.” He finally remembers his manners and pauses to shake Nathaniel’s hand. His grip is firm and his skin is surprisingly dry. “I hadn’t heard you’d returned from traveling.”

“I’ve only been back about a month.”

“Wow, you were gone for so long! Lucky. Did Marinette get an internship as well?”

“Ah... no. She didn’t.”

“Then what is she up to?”

The base of Nathaniel’s neck turns beet red during the moment he awkwardly stutters his answer, “I... I don’t really know. We broke up awhile ago.”

Adrien’s default smile falters and concern wraps around his heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” A shy smile kisses the edge of his lips. It lasts for only a heartbeat before Nathaniel’s eyes are back to business. “Do you really have time to show me around this floor? You mentioned you were late. I might inconvenience you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nobody expects much out of interns on their first day except that they learn the layout of the office and how to work the coffee machine. Come, I’m on my way to see Michaëlle. I’ll introduce you, and if you’re worried about needing something to do she’s always looking for help.”

“Who’s she?” he asks as they begin walking again.

“She’s the force that oversees the Wardrobe.” Emerging from the hallway they’re met with a large open working space. Geometric patterns form from the white desks grouped together, surfaces merging together as one large unit. Once past Nathalie’s desk, the dress code here relaxes to the extent that everyone is wearing black and white. It’s not explicitly stated that employees on the design floor have to wear designer labels, and as such most of the women here wear leggings. Minor splashes of colour are allowed depending on the season. This fall bright oranges, reds and browns are permitted. They pass one rebel who is still wearing pastel toned jewelry from the spring. Adrien estimates she’ll be receiving written notice from Nathalie within the hour.

The majority of the floor is completely open, allowing for a combination of natural and artificial lighting. Windows run the ceiling to the floor with a view overlooking the busy street. Cars and pedestrians rush by, separated by a row of chestnut trees. High end shops line _Champs-Élysées,_ culminating in the roundabout surrounding _l’Arc de Triomphe_. The giant arch is one of the few monuments still standing after the attacks of last spring. As such, the sidewalks are flooded with tourists, all eager to take selfies in front of the intricate carvings.

The scent of new flooring blends with the flora from across the room. In the center of the work space is another behemoth of a desk, but this one is made entirely of wood. Its sections are fully adjustable. Tables have been angled at various degrees depending on the work currently being done in the ring, and multiple assistants are running back and forth. Deadlines for the spring line are fast approaching. The clicking of their heels echoes across the room.

Along the walls run the working tables where mock-ups are created. With the progress of 3D modelling this area isn’t as popular as it used to be, but there are still a few old school designers that enjoy creating articles from scratch. This hands-on process allows them time to reflect on their designs and make adjustments as necessary. Storage underneath the long tables contains rolls of fabric of every colour and texture. A roll of black tulle is rolled out across the closest table. White chalk traces the outlines of Gabriel’s next creation.

Besides the main entrance, there’s only one other area with walls at the far end. Through the panes of glass they can see that marketing is holding a meeting at the long table. One woman in a white suit jacket and black leggings is presenting a dense bar graph projected onto a screen to the collected audience. Her slender fingers bring attention to a slight dip in numbers.

“So this area is the main pit,” he explains to Nathaniel. “Designers, marketing, sales all work on the same floor. My dad’s area is in the middle. I recommend that you don’t go near there until a couple months in when you’ve got a handle on things.”

“I’d heard rumors about his new work space...”

Before he can help it, the words lash out. “Well the ridiculous ones are false.”

Nathaniel’s taken aback by his tone, and his neck reddens like a strawberry in embarrassment. “I meant about the work space change. Not about him being – well, you know.”

He inhales once, letting his ribs swell like a balloon. The pressure builds, and rushes out with his anger in a heavy exhale. “Good. Come on, Wardrobe is on the next floor.”

The two young men make their way to the wide circular staircase. As they wind their way up the steps, Nathaniel’s gazes in awe at the rain drop chandelier. Light shines through at least two hundred small crystals falling from the ceiling in a waterfall. The structure slowly turns in time to their movements climbing the ivory stairs.

While the working space downstairs had been relatively organized, sections clearly marked, the second level is chaos. One half of the floor is designated to set design, and it is in the process of setting up the next shoot. Lighting equipment lays next to backdrops on the floor, hogging most of the clean floor space. Sparkles from last week’s shoot linger in the cracks of the floor, just as they had in his hair for two days. Next to lighting is a small group of workers arguing over printouts. Hip height wood shipping containers act as a makeshift table. They’re arguing over some minor details in the wiring.

One insists, “The breakers can handle it if we wire this section over to the other and –“

“No, no, no. The wiring in the walls there was never replaced.”

“ _Putain._ Then could we relay section B through this area over here?”

Adrien doesn’t catch the rest of the conversation as they turn and enter the world of Wardrobe. There was at one point a more technical term for this area until it descended into mayhem. Over the last few months Michaëlle has been able to bring some logic to this mess, but it has been a struggle. The section closest to the set is reserved for makeup and hair. Changing quarters are tucked into the dark corner behind floor to ceiling velvet curtains. At the moment the empty rooms are packed full of boxes. Inside they contain clothes and accessories for the next shoot. To the side is a stack of folded tables and chairs, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.

Past this, they enter the working space controlled and governed by Michaëlle. Mannequins stand in a disarray, as if something wild had torn through their numbers and they had taken heavy casualties. Arms lie propped against a roll of fabric, a leg lies on top of cupboards. Two assistants try to squeeze a limbless torso into a sweater with little success. Sweat beads down the sides of their faces and their curses light the air with fire.

“Cornflakes!” an accented voice yells from behind a rack of jackets, “Get over here now!”

“Coming,” Adrien begins to edge his way around the various racks. He weaves back and forth between them all, careful not to knock any of the clipboards hanging from the poles. Each is labelled with a model’s name, and the order in which they’re to wear each outfit. Two of Joanne’s racks are too close together to nudge through, and he has to delicately push one out of the way. Heavy knits sway, metal clinks and the wheels creak in protest as he does. Finally he makes his way into the center of the chaos.

Michaëlle stands with both hands on her hips. She’s the only individual in this building that disregards the dress code. Today she’s wearing a loose over the shoulder t-shirt featuring a pink dog relieving itself onto a fire hydrant. Her jean shorts are frayed, homemade and on the edge of falling apart at the seams. With it all she’s paired gladiator sandals. The feature of her ensemble is the screaming splash of colour that is her hair. Cut in a short pixie bob, this week it’s a royal blue. One wall is plastered with Nathalie’s written notices, where they’re used as a backdrop for reminders and sticky notes. Her nails aren’t manicured, they’re unadorned and cut short. She wears a cushion with pins as a bracelet, and a measuring tape draped over her shoulders as a scarf.

On her first day working Gabriel had fired her three times. She had told him to shut up and singlehandedly saved the disaster of their first photo shoot in this building. Since then they avoided each other and worked in peace.

Her sharp eyes scan him once up and down and she swears something most foul. Her French Canadian accent garbles the consonants, making her words incomprehensible until moments later. When he finally gets their meaning, the heat of a dark blush begins to creep up behind his ears.

“You did it again Cornflakes! What did I tell you?”

“Um... not to?”

“Exactly. I’m going to have to start all over. Get over here and strip.”

He strides over to the free space forced between cabinets and desks. Each is overloaded with papers, designs, and articles of clothing in the process of being altered. The hole of one desk designed for computer wires is home for an upside-down Eiffel tower. This in turn holds a collection of pens, markers, chalk and pencils.

By the time he’s worked the t-shirt from his body he’s reminded of Nathaniel. The young man stands awkwardly on the edge of the free space, trying to avert his eyes from Adrien’s bare chest. Michaëlle eyes the intern up and down and one of her dark eyebrows rises slowly.

“Fresh meat?” she asks Adrien.

“He just started today.”

“Ah, _d’accord_.” She turns back to Nathaniel and extends her hand. “Michaëlle. You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t tip anything over. If you do, you’re responsible for reorganization.”

He shakes her hand timidly. As Adrien slips off his shoes and then pants, blush creeps up Nathaniel’s neck once more.

She shakes her head from side to side, causing a few blue strands to slip out of place from behind an ear. They’re ignored as she claps Nathaniel once on the back. “You’ll have to get used to this. Cornflakes here has been screwing up his body and needs to be re-measured constantly.”

“I don’t mean to!” Adrien protests.

“Then you’re terrible at your job. Why can’t you be like Joanne? Her measurements haven’t changed, and her entire diet has shifted since moving to this country.”

“Well, maybe that’s because Joanne is superhuman.” Envy burns in his throat.

“And you’re not? Bossman brags to anyone who will listen that you are perfection incarnate.”

Instead of replying he folds his clothes neatly into a pile and balances them on top of a mountain of paperwork. The stack sways precipitously twice before settling in.

Removing the measuring tape from around her neck signals the beginning of this routine. He instinctively closes his eyes, and begins to concentrate on his breath. It’s slow, filling his chest and forcing his spine straight. At the light press of her hands against his chest he raises his arms. She completes the first measurement in seconds and they move on. The movements are memorized, they work together seamlessly shifting from one pose to the next.

When she’s finished he opens his eyes to see her swearing, _“Tabernacle._ ”

“Again?”

“Arms and legs are off by a centimeter, and two for your chest. Why do you do this to me Cornflakes? Did I kick your dog or something?”

“I don’t... I don’t own a dog.” The heat of his flush spreads over his entire face, leaving him feeling like a tomato head.

“Not the point.” She sighs, her whole body deflating a couple inches. “I have to redo at least half your pieces for the upcoming shoot.”

“But it’s only a few centimeters,” Nathaniel’s rich voice interjects.

A sardonic grin inches past her lips. “This is the Gabriel brand we’re talking about. A few centimeters with unaltered clothing will have the contours of his muscles showing through. If he’s not careful, he could Hulk out on set and tear every garment to shreds.”

“So? He looks really good.” Alarm flashes through his eyes as he realizes what he’s just said. “I – I mean he looks... attractive. I mean – not that I  would – well not in this context, I just...”

Michaelle’s laugh is soft. As she claps Nathaniel again on his back again, the intern’s flush face brings Adrien back to the realization that he’s still standing half-naked in front of both of them. Awkwardly, he turns his mind to the task of getting redressed.

His body has been a contentious issue at work over the past year. He’d tried everything to keep it from developing such as a reduced caloric load, cancelling his gym membership, and trying every diet and cleanse he’d found online. Despite his efforts, his body betrayed him. Soft limbs had grown hard and finely shaped from running and jumping across rooftops. His chest tapered into a soft v at his hips. It was getting to a point that his activities outside of modelling were putting his career at risk. Nathaniel pulls himself together by the time Adrien is tugging pants up his legs.

“What I mean is, he’s almost got a Grecian ideal body type. Not quite, but shouldn’t his form be wanted to sell product?”

Michaëlle answers. “In other industries, yes. But ever since Gabriel has started a women’s line, our models have toed the edge of androgyny. His muscles don’t match the image of the brand and I’ll have to alter the clothing to hide them the best I can.”

Meaning he was creating extra work for her to deal with. Guilt sinks in his abdomen.

“I’m sorry Michaë –“

“No.” she cuts him off.

“But –“

“No. Shut up. Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

“I don’t mean to –“

“ _Vas-y!”_ Her voice is commanding and powerful enough to make a black sweater hanging on a rack to sway.

He swallows once, uncomfortably forcing the lump down his throat. Then nods, and begins weaving his way back through the clothing racks. Before he’s past the second one, her voice rings out again.

“You, Croquette, you stay. I’ll need your help.”

He turns to see confusion blossom over Nathaniel’s face.

“She means you,” Adrien informs him.

Nathaniel’s eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

“I don’t have all day Croquette! Find me some white chalk.”

Adrien wishes him good luck before heading off. As he winds his way past racks, boxes, wires and sparkles his mind drifts back to the issue he was dreading before the elevator doors had opened that morning.

It’s time, he decides. Putting it off any longer would be seen by his father as unprofessional. Going ahead with it anyways might be seen the same way. After he makes his way back down to the main pit, he carefully approaches the central area.

There his father is in the middle of a phone call on a headset. His Mandarin is flawless, diving up and down with each consonant. As he gives a list of instructions to the listener on the other side of the line, he’s also checking over proofs from the last photo shoot, circling what needs to be retouched.

Around the circular desk a small army swarms. Two of the more seasoned interns are finalizing their selection of flora for Gabriel to draw inspiration from for his last few designs. The desk over to the right is where his assistants are located. One is busy rearranging his schedule, booking appointments and bumping others. Another is sorting through e-mail and physical mail addressed personally to _M._ Agreste. He makes his way over to the third assistant, the only one with an island separate from everyone else. The desk is empty of any stationary, and instead holds three computer monitors and one cup of matcha green tea. The scent is bitter and strong.

The man sitting behind the touch monitors is busy typing away on separate screens. He’s older than Adrien by at least a decade, and dresses each day in an impeccable suit. His dark skin contrasts with the light sterile colour of the entire office. An earpiece connects wirelessly to the latest iPhone stashed away in the recesses of his suit. As Adrien approaches, his brown eyes track his every footstep.

“Can I help you Adrien?” There is a hint of personality in his voice, something that makes an appearance only when convenient or necessary.

He shifts uncomfortably onto the balls of his feet before going ahead, “Can I get an appointment with my father today?”

“He’s busy all day.”

“I’d only need five minutes of his time.”

“I’m sorry, he’s fully booked.”

He’s disappointed, but by now he should have learnt to expect nothing less. Despite having completely changed his working routine, Gabriel still prioritizes work over everything else.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Don’t bother,” a soft voice pops up beside him just as an arm wraps itself around one of his shoulders. She’s light and doesn’t weigh much as she leans against his side. Joanne’s loose brown hair falls against his arm, tickling his skin. She wears a simple white sleeveless dress with a black belt wrapping around her waist. Her lack of heels brings her several inches shorter than him.

Her dark red lids stretch into a smile as she continues, “Give him my appointment later this afternoon Pascal, I was just going to reschedule.”

“Again?” the assistant’s brows arch in question.

“Yes. There’s a last minute shoot I have to do.”

Pascal shakes his head and with a few finger taps the appointment is switched. “Eighteen o’clock. See you then Adrien.”

Relief flutters through his chest. After Joanne rebooks her appointment they walk away from his father’s desk. Her hands slide down to his elbow, interlinking comfortably. They walk several rows in silence. Inside the crook of his elbow her manicured nails tap out a rhythm in time to their footsteps.

“You didn’t really have to reschedule, did you?” he’s the first to break the silence.

“Define ‘have to’.” There’s mirth crawling in her voice.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever. It gives me another day to avoid Gabes.”

He can’t help it, each time she uses that nickname he ends up chuckling under his breath. Relief settles through his shoulders, undoing the knots worked into the muscles of his back. As they approach the edge of the pit she disengages from his arm.

“I need to tell you to be careful what you say to him tonight,” the look on her face stills his short-lived comfort. “There are rumors going around.”

“About what?”

“That the Gabriel line is looking to sign a fresh male model.”

“A what?” his heart stills. His skin prickles with goosebumps. The office sounds disappear as his mind tunes out everything except her voice.

She shifts uncomfortably from side to side under his intense gaze, “Maybe the rumors are false and we’re getting an addition to our team. Our duo will be a trio.”

He feels there’s something more, “Or?”

She swallows and looks away, blue eyes scanning the pit for something else to concentrate on. He waits patiently, heart thudding like a drum in his ears. Each moment she doesn’t speak is drawn out, pulled apart into taut strings. His breath is short, coming in shallow breaths and constricting his chest.

Her fists clench, gathering courage between her fists, and she turns back to face him, “The other rumor is... you might be getting replaced.”

He blinks, and a weight settles through his shoulders. In a rush, the surrounding world comes back in. Faxes are printed, phones ring, and sewing machines purr at a constant pace. She goes to say more but he cuts her off, “Then it’s a good thing I’m meeting with him tonight.”

He turns and leaves, suddenly needing a chance to get out and run without any obstacles in his path. He needs something to hit, a face to punch without fear of breaking anyone’s bones. Joanne calls out after him, but he continues on. While he’d been expecting this news for quite some time, the maelstrom of emotions brewing inside of him wasn’t foreseen. He needs to work this off, the only way he knows how.

Ironically, what he needs is what’s getting him fired as well.

 

* * *

 

 

The process of discovering what she owns frustrates Marinette. At first it was fun, opening boxes like it was Christmas to discover items, souvenirs and trinkets she’d forgotten she’d purchased over the last couple years. Between the two of them they had amassed enough items to furnish the entire apartment, but not to cook a basic meal for lunch.

Ayla had just thrown the noodles into the water when she’d suddenly turned to ask Marinette, “Do we own a strainer?”

“Oh.” She’d stiffened and cast a glance around their apartment. Her furtive glances between disassembled boxes had been pointless. Never during their travels had they made a point to send a strainer home as a souvenir. “No, we don’t.”

“Oh.” Ayla had turned back to the boiling pot of water, reached forward, and slowly turned it off.

Their grumbling stomachs had motivated Marinette out into the real world in search of a strainer. She stands now on the corner of the cobblestone street across from the supermarket waiting to cross. The sidewalks swarm with students and families preparing for the coming year, their arms laden with household essentials. Laughter and muffled conversations blend into the background noise of traffic. Car exhaust mingles with the scent of chocolate from the chocolatier close by. Two students struggle across the intersection to keep a single mattress on the narrow base of their hand cart. Behind them a third rolls a black office chair. It doubles as a cart carrying an overloaded box of stationary supplies.

Her eyes glance between pedestrians and cars, her skin prickling with nerves. The base of her neck is as hard as steel. She’s keenly aware of how long it has been since she’s been in public by herself in this city. Her mind flashes back to the park and the flash of terror in the eyes of the young mother. The woman’s fingers trembling at the base of the gun. She had been terrified of Ladybug.

A child cries out in surprise behind her breaking her from her thoughts. She turns to find a silver orb floating upwards. The small boy’s hand is outstretched to the sky, inches from a thin string. Her eyes dart back up to the orb, to see the balloon quickly drifting out of reach. She jumps without a thought. This jostles the individual standing next to her but she manages to snag the string an inch from its base. Victory flares through her chest. Her feet land hard on the cobblestones and her right twists out from under her as it follows the rounded surface beneath it. She falls hard, hands scraping across cement and tearing flesh. Pain swells first from her forearms where she landed hardest, next from her knees. Gravel and dirt from the road have embedded themselves deep within the flesh of her hands.

There are more high-pitched cries from behind her. The child’s surprise has been replaced with horror, his eyes stuck staring down the street. She follows his gaze to see a green van approaching fast. Its wheels spin fast as a hurricane, and the sound of its engine reverberates through her body. She goes to move but finds fear pinning her in place.

Two eyes wide with fear peek out of her purse as the child screams again. Tikki’s voice is lost in the cacophony of the crowd and encroaching traffic.

A flash of black, and her body is jerked roughly from the ground. The wind tears at her face, whipping her hair back. The screaming engine hurls past.

It takes her several seconds to open her eyes to find that she’s still in one piece. She hasn’t been flattened into a crepe on the streets of Paris. In one hand she clutches the ribbon of the silver balloon. Blood and dirt mar the light surface of her skin.

“You’re hurt,” a low voice comes inches from her face. This newcomer has noticed her wounds. Marinette turns to see who it is and her heart stops in her chest.

Chat Noir has changed since she saw him last. The sides of his head have been trimmed short, his jaw line has grown more pronounced, and judging from the ease of how he is both holding her in his arms and clinging to the edge of a building he had grown stronger as well. Her eyes glance for a moment at the tips of his ears that are dipped in scarlet.

His voice rumbles deep within his chest, “Let’s get you someplace safe, Marinette.”

He launches them from the side of the building into the cool afternoon air. Her stomach lurches up to her throat and Marinette’s arms wrap tightly around his neck. She has no control as he moves them up and across buildings, along rooftops and over balconies. This makes her feel like a rag doll being thrown back and forth. The only thing she can do is close her eyes and fervently wish for the feeling of helplessness to end. With every jump she fights the urge to call on Tikki, to transform and have her own two feet planted solidly on the ground.

Eons later they land. He lets her down slowly, making sure she has her balance before letting go. Marinette looks up to see that they’ve landed just outside of her parent’s bakery.

He goes to say something but a crash echoes in the distance. It’s followed closely by a scream. Chat Noir’s ears pivot, pinpointing the location of panic. His muscles are coiling, preparing to throw himself into whatever trouble that waits for him just blocks away.

“Will you be okay?” Concern flashes through his bright eyes.

“Yes,” she lies. He believes her words, and with a nod he launches back into his role of Protector of Paris.

As he clears the rooftops and disappears out of sight her shoulders droop. The corners of her eyes prick and she struggles with a sudden weight on her chest. Any possibility of tears is cut off by clenching her fist hard. Gravel grinds deeper into the cuts. Warm blood flows to the surface of her skin, and meanders down cracks. Droplets fall softly to the ground.

The moment of weakness passes, and she turns to face her parents’ shop. Inside customers wander back and forth between shelves of baked goods. Sunlight sparkles and dances on the windows. Sabine rings through an order for an elderly woman, smiles and laughter gracing both of their faces.

She feels like a stranger here. This isn’t her home anymore. As another drop of blood hits the ground, she reminds herself that she has little choice. Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, she slips her mask into place. The smile is weak, but it’s been convincing enough.

Marinette approaches the front door and prepares the next lie to her family. Clutched in her bleeding hand, the silver balloon follows her into the shop.


End file.
